


Ketchup soup from times of scarcity

by LittleDream



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: First Crush, Light Angst, M/M, implied klance, klance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-11
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2020-10-14 20:03:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20606519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleDream/pseuds/LittleDream
Summary: Ketchup soup has always been a part of Keith's life: sometimes as a resource to survive during harsh times, some others as comfort-for-the-soul.It's the one food Keith knows he can rely on and not something he would easily share.Except for two people, that is.





	Ketchup soup from times of scarcity

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there!  
First of all, thank you for clicking.  
This is short, but I enjoyed working on it nonetheless. It's inspired by a Youtube video I watched with the recipe of ketchup soup: I had never heard of it and it made a big impact to think about people who rely on it during harsh times. 
> 
> A huge thanks to my great betas Silvermoon (Silvamoon here on Ao3) and a secret agent beta of doom.  
Betas are magic, I tell you. 
> 
> I might get to write a second chapter in the future, but at the moment it works as one-shot. 
> 
> I think that might be all. I hope you have a nice day and happy reading!

He never knew what it was like to have a lot of money. 

When Keith was a young child, his dad’s salary as a firefighter was just enough to make ends meet. Every penny was well-accounted for and any left over was saved with the meticulousness of those who know that money comes and goes like an ocean’s tide. 

Even so, there were moments when that security money disappeared. Reality handed them unwanted surprises, like the time Keith caught a cold severe enough to be hospitalized, and the meager savings they managed to put together would be gone in the blink of an eye. 

During those times, the grocery list would be pared down to bare essentials and rations would be measured before being served. Their visits to the neighborhood supermarket would change to shopping in the closest dollar store and they made every effort to eat what they had before it spoiled. 

When pantries turned dusty, when fridge shelves cleaned out, when the cold of the desert chilled bones and empty stomachs grumbled, his dad would put some water to boil in a pot and call for Keith to pass him their dragon’s treasure. 

Keith--innocent, smiling Keith--would go to their secret dragon’s lair (a small crevice in between two of the cupboards) and hand his dad the plastic bag they had stored there, filled with tiny packets of ketchup and small creamer containers they had accumulated during times of less economic restraint, when they could afford a visit or two to McDonald's or the diner in front of Keith’s school. 

While waiting for the water to heat up, Keith would open some ketchup packages and his dad would look for leftover salties as they joked and laughed with each other. Then they would pour the ketchup into the pot, add a bit of sugar, and mix it all until well blended. 

Dinner was then served--Keith’s plate always mysteriously fuller than his dad’s--and they would make designs on top with the creamer, close their eyes, and play-pretend they were dining in the fanciest restaurant in town. 

It was years later, looking back, when Keith realized that when he was with his dad, he never went truly hungry, and that their ketchup soup warmed more than his belly for the entire night.   
  


* * *

When his dad passed away and Keith was thrown into the system, he never knew what kind of family he was going to be shoved to. 

He got lucky the first time. The adults only had two other kids to care for, which meant good meals and sometimes a weekly allowance to spend.

Those first months were fine, and if Keith had been a different person with a different background, that family might have become his permanent one. But the wounds in his heart from his absent mom and the recent loss of his dad were still open and bleeding; his anger lying just under his skin, ready to surface at the smallest provocation. 

Keith received his first academic suspension after a rather messy fight with one of his classmates, so off he went, back to his social worker to be the next family’s problem. 

After that, Keith wasn't as lucky. 

The second foster home was run by a pair of greedy adults who fostered a large group of children of all ages in order to get the monthly support checks. The pantry was stocked with boxes of cheap mac and cheese, a good supply of tuna cans, cigarettes, and alcohol. The fridge had soda, milk, and Tupperware filled with moldy, unrecognizable concoctions. 

“You’re all old enough to take care of yourselves,” the woman would say when one of the younger kids asked for something to eat, as she'd swing an open bottle of tequila with one hand. “You’re perfectly capable of fixing your own meals.”

Whatever the children could make themselves, it was gone quickly and it was never enough. If you got some cookies from school and didn’t eat them before going home or hide them well, the oldest and strongest kids would steal them with no hesitation. 

Those months were harsh and cold and all the warmth left from Keith’s childhood vanished like bubbles in the wind. He learned for the first time what it felt like to wake up in the middle of the night, stomach aching from hunger. He rose the next morning with the firm resolution to never let it happen again, even if he had to steal. 

Thus, he learned to shop-lift. 

Keith never went for big, flashy items--the fear of ending up in juvie was too strong--but he had no issue taking potatoes and carrots from the farmer’s market or filling his pockets with ketchup packets and creamers at the closest chain restaurants and coffee shops. He learned to cook the vegetables in the microwave and found the best hiding spots in the house. He kept his own dragon’s treasure (though he stopped calling it that, he wasn’t a child anymore thank-you-very-much) filled and ready to use.

Yet he reserved ketchup soup for only the most dire of times.

Left with no other options and nothing else to salvage.

Because every time he ate it, he cried. 

Until the day he didn't lose a single tear. 

The soup had become food to help you survive. Nothing more, nothing less. 

* * *

  
  
By the time Shiro found him, Keith had become a professional thief (or at least as professional as stealing from corner stores and 24/7 shops could be) and his fear of getting arrested had long since been banished. All the experience had led him to believe that stealing a high profile military vehicle wouldn’t be a big deal. 

In his defense, Keith had expected Shiro to be just another adult ready to squeeze whatever he wanted from Keith, whether that was money, or the social status and praise that came with sheltering a poor orphan child, only to throw that child away once he got too tiring to deal with. 

Keith was not a child. Not anymore. He knew the game and its rules. 

But Shiro did not react as Keith expected. 

Shiro didn’t call the cops on him, nor did he take him back to the orphanage. He chose to bring Keith to his home, showed him to his new room--one whole, entire room all to himself--and introduced him to a man with a kind smile who teased Shiro until his ears turned red from embarrassment. 

“I can’t believe you let a kid steal your car, Takashi! Are you seriously an active military pilot?” The man, Adam, had teased, laughing freely when Shiro’s face turned scarlet. 

Keith frowned and turned to Adam with glaring eyes. “I’m not a kid!”

Adam turned a surprised and saddened face to him. Keith averted his gaze. 

“Of course you’re not. I apologize.” Adam smiled again and took Shiro’s hand in his. “Anyway, I think it’s almost time for dinner. How about you unpack and make yourself comfortable? We’ll meet you downstairs when you’re ready.” 

Keith nodded and watched them go, his eyes following their joined hands. 

Their dinner that night included tomato soup, the kind that came in a can and ready to serve. 

The kind that’s cheap but not free like ketchup packets.

The kind that normal families eat together. 

Later, after getting into the Garrison, Keith did not eat ketchup soup for a long time. 

* * *

Then Shiro was declared dead, and Keith’s memories became a blurry haze of sounds and colors.

He remembered:

Punching Iverson, his pain and sorrow expressing itself as a wave of pure rage.

Being expelled from school. 

Fighting with Adam, yelling at him as he felt the walls of his heart grow higher and thicker than they were before.

Going to his room, packing his few belongings and some snacks in an old military bag, and slamming the door on his way out.

Running and running until his feet gave out, collapsing on the ground like a broken marionette as tears pricked his eyes.

He ignored the raw sting of his palms and knees as his hands scrabbled and grasped at fistfuls of dirt and pebbles.

Shiro couldn’t be dead. He couldn’t have caused the mission’s failure. He just couldn’t have. 

And Keith was going to prove it. He was going to show everyone that they were wrong, if it was the last thing he did.  
  


* * *

A few hours later found Keith opening the door to his old shack. The hinges made a grinding noise and Keith grimaced as he looked around at the decay that had taken over the place through the years. 

Whatever. A roof over his head was a roof over his head. 

Keith closed the door behind him and walked into what used to be his room, his boots leaving soft footprints in the dust-covered floor. Even covered in dirt, everything looked exactly as he remembered. He hated it. 

Dropping his backpack on the bed caused a small puff of dust and Keith grimaced once again. He wouldn’t be able to delay a deep cleaning for long, but hunger was a more pressing matter. He opened his bag and took out the snacks he packed, a couple bags of chips and a granola bar, turned on his heel and went back out to the kitchen. 

Opening the pantry proved to be a relief: it was well-supplied with canned food that would last at least a few days. He’d have to find a way to get some money or groceries soon. The fridge, though, was the complete opposite. It reeked of putrefaction and disuse so strongly it almost made Keith gag. Almost. 

He ripped a bag of chips open and munched on them as he checked every nook and cranny. He didn't think rats could make it that far into the desert, but he couldn't be so sure about cockroaches, snakes, scorpions, and other similar pests. 

After spending some time moving things around, he found their old ketchup packet supply. He looked at it sadly and gave himself just a minute to feel the pain and nostalgia. Then he frowned and moved on. 

Luckily for him, aside from a couple of spiders, a well-hidden scorpion, and the fridge, the kitchen area seemed to be clean if a bit dusty, and he moved on to the rest of the house. 

* * *

Time passed as Keith immersed himself in investigating Shiro's disappearance. He slept poorly, drank a lot of stolen instant coffee and covered his walls with different colored post-its and yarns. 

He got his meals from the grocery store's discarded items; mostly produce and other perishables that were thrown away near the store's back entrance.

Sometimes he found particularly good items, like chocolate bars or even shampoo and deodorant with some cash hidden in the packaging. He knew it had to be Adam's doing but he never said anything.

He ate the food and used the hygiene products because he might have been dirt poor but he wasn't stupid. 

The money went into a drawer, never to be touched again. 

On cold nights he had ketchup soup for dinner.

Yet, even though he was sitting at the childhood table of his childhood home, the soup didn't warm his stomach the way he remembered it. 

* * *

After he found Shiro and joined Voltron, his meals stopped being an issue to worry about. A seemingly inexhaustible supply of food goo gave the paladins all the nutrients needed to keep them healthy and in top condition. 

Keith slept, ate, and practiced with his new sword. He talked with Shiro, and avoided the rest of the group except for the joint Voltron training. Keith adapted to his new life as a soldier with the ease of someone who learned not to try to fit in anymore. It was enough for him. 

But not for the others, it seemed, because they kept pushing his boundaries and knocking on his door, asking to be their friend and teammate. Keith knew better than to trust them, they only cared about forming Voltron. 

And then there was Lance. 

Lance was the only one who didn’t knock. He banged and hammered and hit with the intensity of an unstoppable typhoon and the courtesy of a desert sandstorm, dragging Keith out of his comfortable cocoon and forcing reaction after reaction out of him. They screamed and fought and broke each other down in a constant loop that exhausted, annoyed, and worried the rest of the team. 

Keith and Lance finally achieved peace, unexpectedly, because of Keith’s soup. 

Keith found some Earth ketchup packets and some weird space creamers in their visits to the space malls and used those opportunities to fill his pockets with them. Who cared if they were a little expired? He had eaten far worse. Now he could enjoy making soup on the ship. Late at night, when everyone else was sleeping, the soup provided a well-needed break from the monotony of the food goo and a call-back to missed Earth foods. A chance for quiet and peace in the midst of his chaotic daily life. 

It had been one of those nights when Lance entered the dimly lit kitchen, all long limbs and sleepy eyes, dragging his feet and yawning. He froze when he saw Keith, immediately straightening his back and frowning. Keith rolled his eyes and kept eating. Lance was probably there for a glass of water and honestly, Keith wasn’t feeling up to a fight. 

Lance glanced down to Keith’s plate and then up to the steaming pot on the stove and his eyes glinted with curiosity. He then asked what Keith was eating, and after a couple of minutes of friendly banter, they had had a long and warm conversation about food at home and what they wanted to eat most when they got back. 

Keith even offered Lance a plate of his soup, to share what was left in the pot. He had not shared ketchup soup with anyone since his dad passed away. The pair ate in comfortable silence and Lance had offered to wash the dishes. 

They walked to their rooms together and before heading inside, Lance cleared his throat. 

“So… um.. Thank you for sharing.” Lance shyly put a hand on the back of his neck. “When I see my family again, I’ll take you with me. My mom makes a killer tomato soup. You’ll love it.”

Keith smiled back, something indescribable fluttering in his chest as he looked at his teammate. He was too tired to focus on it so he simply shrugged it off. 

“I’ll look forward to it.” 

Before falling asleep, the warmth of the soup still present in his belly, Keith thought that perhaps his relationship with Lance was like working on a marble sculpture: you had to chisel out all the unwanted stone,  roughing out the shapes before being able to smooth and refine the final figure. Ah, it’s hard work, but when it’s all done, its beauty is breathtaking and warm, just like shared ketchup soup.


End file.
